


find the love you lost again

by blackkat



Series: useless porn scraps [30]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arrancar!Ukitake, Bondage, M/M, PWP, Post-Canon, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-25 04:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14969336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: “Fuckinghatehow pretty you are,” Grimmjow breathes into his skin, but the blue and green around his eyes is starting to bleed, the reiatsu around him sharpening like a big cat baring its claws. He drags his mouth up Jūshirō’s stomach, tongue and teeth and greedy hunger, and Jūshirō laughs, breathless with something far better than creeping death, and hauls him the rest of the way into his arms.





	find the love you lost again

“Twenty-three,” a smug voice says in Jūshirō’s ear, half a second before hands clamp down around his elbows.

“Are we counting kills now?” Jūshirō asks, trying for vaguely reproving, but it’s hard when there’s suddenly a body pressed up against him, hot breath on his shoulder and then lips on the curve of his neck.

Grimmjow grunts, clearly uninterested in talking, and shoves. Jūshirō trips forward, only just able to catch himself with his shoulder against the wall as Grimmjow presses him up into it, and how _amazing_ , really, not to be treated as something fragile, to be touched the way anyone else would touch a soldier. He gasps, halfway to a laugh, and Grimmjow drags his arms behind him, making Sōgyo no Kotowari drop from his fingertips to clatter against the stone.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know exactly how many Hollows you cut down,” Grimmjow challenges, and his arms wrap around Jūshirō, haul him up and back against Grimmjow’s body as his hands slide into Jūshirō’s robe. The obi comes apart with a few stubborn tugs, the hakama drop, and Jūshirō doesn’t resist as Grimmjow slides the garments right off of his shoulders.

“Of course I do,” he says mildly, tipping his head back against Grimmjow’s shoulder to get a glimpse of his face, fierce and focused and intent. It makes Jūshirō shiver, just a little, moan trapped in his throat as he says roughly, “But I think I kept track for a rather different reason.”

Grimmjow snorts, his opinion on that clear, but he gathers Jūshirō’s hair in one hand, wraps it around his fist just enough that Jūshirō can feel the pull of it. He groans, and Grimmjow smirks against his throat, smug and expectant. “You still kept track,” he points out. “So?”

Jūshirō closes his eyes, trying to breathe, and it’s rather more difficult to remember right now than it was a moment ago. “I—seventeen. I don’t have your talent for destruction.”

A low laugh, full of sharp edges, and then Grimmjow’s pulling his arms back more tightly, wrapping coils of rope pulled from _somewhere_ around his forearms, and a sound that’s equal parts shock and heat tears free of Jūshirō’s throat. “I win,” Grimmjow says, and sharp teeth nip Jūshirō’s ear. “You're the one taking it up the ass this time, pretty boy.”

“It’s nice you think I'm pretty,” Jūshirō says cheerfully, and laughs when Grimmjow shoves him back against the wall with a growl. His cheek presses into white stone, mask fragment scraping the brick, and he has to close his eyes with a moan as Grimmjow grinds against his ass, thick and hard and smearing precum across Jūshirō’s skin.

“Prettier as a Hollow,” Grimmjow growls in his ear, and his tongue slides out to skim the shell of it teasingly, lingering on the delicate curve of bone that arches up across his temple like a broken crown. Jūshirō shudders, a rough, breathless noise escaping him, because bone shouldn’t have feeling but this _does_ , and it slips through Jūshirō’s veins like a wash of heat. There's a satisfied sound, and Grimmjow presses him harder into the stone, the hand in his hair pulling tight. “Fuck, _way_ prettier as a Hollow.”

Jūshirō laughs, pleased to hear it, and wonders what Shunsui would say if he could hear that. What he would say if he could _see_ this, Jūshirō stripped bare, arms bound, an Arrancar practically on top of him as Jūshirō eagerly spreads his legs.

Well. Knowing Shunsui, as soon as he recovered from the shock he’d be cheering on the uptick in activity in Jūshirō’s love life. Jūshirō smiles to himself, tipping his head to feel the pull on his hair, and says, “Are you sure? You seemed to like that I was inside you just an hour ago, and I'm sure you're still stretched—ah!”

“My turn,” Grimmjow tells him darkly, and in an instant Jūshirō has been spun around, back slamming into the wall. Hands lock around his thighs, lifting, and Jūshirō swallows a cry, locking his legs around Grimmjow’s waist as that thick body falls against him, pinning him to the stone. Grimmjow’s pants are already undone, and he hitches his hips up under Jūshirō’s, grinding his cock between Jūshirō’s legs as he crushes their mouths together. Jūshirō makes a startled sound, kisses back as best he can, and it’s habit to try and tug his hands free, to reach up and grab Grimmjow’s hair, hang on, but the rope pulls him up short. He whimpers, shivering, and Grimmjow laughs into the kiss.

“You act like a bitch in heat the second I tie you up,” he says, pressing his mouth to Jūshirō’s throat, the bone of his mask scraping across his skin. “‘S funny. Bet Starrk could have taken you right out of the fight if he’d wrapped you in some rope and touched your dick.”

“Would you enjoy watching him do that?” Jūshirō asks, grinds up into Grimmjow as best he can, desperate for a little more friction on his cock.

“Not right _now_ ,” Grimmjow says crankily, which certainly isn't a no. Jūshirō doesn’t get a chance to tease him for it, though; the hands on his thighs haul him up, practically bending him in half as Grimmjow throws Jūshirō’s leg over his shoulder, tosses the other over the crook of his arm. Jūshirō cries out, straining against the ties, pulling hard and twisting, but there's no moving Grimmjow when he doesn’t want to be moved, no way to shift his bulk. Even if Jūshirō has a centimeter on him Grimmjow is solid muscle, thick and corded as he supports Jūshirō’s weight.

“Grimmjow,” Jūshirō gasps, and Grimmjow laughs, sharp and mocking. He thrusts up, cock sliding against Jūshirō’s in a quick, shattering drag that shivers across Jūshirō’s nerves.

“Wasting a fucking opportunity,” Grimmjow huffs, but one hand is slipping down further, prodding at Jūshirō’s hole. “You still owe me that play shit. King of Hueco Mundo and captured Shinigami.”

Jūshirō laughs, though it catches in his throat and breaks into a moan as two fingers press up into him. “Still—still possible,” he says. “Whenever you want.”

“Not now,” Grimmjow says again, and tilts his head enough to stare up at Jūshirō with one blue eye, hot and intent. “You got yourself all stretched open before the invasion reached us?” he asks, and it’s somewhere between amused and hungry.

“Not for _that_ , Grimmjow!” Jūshirō protests, flushing, and whimpers when Grimmjow lifts him higher, shoves one leg out further. The head of his cock presses against Jūshirō’s entrance beside his fingers, and Jūshirō’s eyes widen. Grimmjow is still staring at him, grinning cat-lazy and jaguar-smug as he presses in, and Jūshirō is stretched by they’ve been fighting, it’s been a while, he’s not—

“Take it easy,” Grimmjow huffs, and catches his mouth in a kiss that’s fit to bruise. Jūshirō leans into it, curls his tongue around Grimmjow’s and whines into the heat of his mouth as he’s breached, the stretch close to an _ache_. He’d intended to surprise Grimmjow in the throne room, used only enough lube to open himself up, and it’s on the edge of being too little, the press of Grimmjow too much.

“Or just take it,” Grimmjow chuckles, twisting his fingers, and Jūshirō hisses, twitches. Groans, sharp and low, as Grimmjow bottoms out and holds him still, pinned between his body and the wall. Those hot eyes on him make his skin feel too tight, oversensitive, and he swallows, lets his head fall back as he tries to catch his breath.

“Don’t I always?” Jūshirō asks, and his mouth feels clumsy around the words, but he means each one of them. “Everything you have to give.”

Grimmjow hisses, drags his fingers out as Jūshirō shouts. He slams up and in, hard enough to bruise if Jūshirō were still a Shinigami, and he doesn’t stop. Each thrust slides in all the way, carves a space for itself in Jūshirō’s body, and he can't help the cry that’s jolted from him, can't help the desperate clutch of his legs as Grimmjow fucks him. Fights the ropes just to feel their hold, the bonds that edge each sensation with the perfect agony of helplessness, and Grimmjow is just as unwavering as the ties, heat and muscle and desperation as he takes Jūshirō without an ounce of restraint.

Each thrust feels like it shatters him open, washes that impossible heat through him, and Jūshirō cries out, shuddering, head thrown back. There's a hand in his hair again, hauling him down with pinpricks of heat-bright pain across his scalp, and Jūshirō takes the kiss, takes Grimmjow’s cock as deeply as it will go and feels the way Grimmjow goes stiff against him, a growl rumbling up from his chest. Heat spills into Jūshirō, wetness spreading inside of him, and he whimpers into Grimmjow’s mouth, thrusts up desperately to get some friction on his aching cock.

With a low, smug chuckle, Grimmjow breaks the kiss, falls back. They land in the soft white sands, and Jūshirō _shouts_ , Grimmjow’s cock jarred deeper into him, the thud of their landing like a hammer-blow to thrumming nerves. He gasps out, back arching, and Grimmjow hitches his legs back arounds his waist, lets him sprawl out in the sands with his chest heaving and his body shaking.

“There we go,” Grimmjow says, and pulls out, then wraps his hand around Jūshirō’s straining cock and gives a firm, twisting stroke, another, a third. Too fast for Jūshirō to catch his breath, too much, and he chokes on a cry as he bows, comes hard across his own chest.

“Fucking _hate_ how pretty you are,” Grimmjow breathes into his skin, but the blue and green around his eyes is starting to bleed, the reiatsu around him sharpening like a big cat baring its claws. He drags his mouth up Jūshirō’s stomach, tongue and teeth and greedy hunger, and Jūshirō laughs, breathless with something far better than creeping death, and hauls him the rest of the way into his arms.


End file.
